


gotham nights

by gaybabyjailwarden



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, and theyre not heros/villains, its uh. idk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 08:49:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14733821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaybabyjailwarden/pseuds/gaybabyjailwarden
Summary: Bruce & Joker meet in a class in college and the rest is history am i right ! (college au, no "powers," VERY canon divergent, will update very infrequently)





	gotham nights

**Author's Note:**

> UUUUUUU so i wrote the majority of this in 2016 and i;m just now trying to pick it back up uh leave me your honest feedback i love being criticized ! also the formatting is all kinds of fucked up i know

  “Oh.” Bruce can’t help but let the phrase fall from his mouth, the man looks so… Different up close.  
  Firstly, he’s wearing a dress. It probably cost $2 at a thrift store, it’s probably at least thirty years old, and it’s probably a triple XL. It looks like a vintage nurse’s uniform dyed pink, held on his bony frame with a belt cinched around his waist--and its still loose. The second thing Bruce notices: he’s tall. Even seated Bruce can tell he must be over six feet. His limbs crowd around him, joints knocking together when he shifts in his seat, albino-alabaster skin with a network of blue veins running underneath. His face is just as angular as the rest of him, jawline sharp enough to cut glass. His lips, now parted to hold a hair tie between his gap teeth, are scarred at the edges- like someone tried to blot out a painting but never fixed it. His nose is crooked from being broken, not genetics, but it suits him. His hair is a shock of green, at least 3 different shades, and white-blonde roots are faintly growing in along his hairline. He finishes tying his hair up and looks at Bruce. When he sees who he’s sat next to he smiles so wide and fiercely he looks as though his face might split open. His eyes are both beautiful and predatory, an icy blue-violet that Bruce figures must be from albinism, and when their gazes finally cross paths Bruce feels as though everything has clicked into place.  
He doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.  
  “Hi stranger,” His voice is scratchy, almost nasally, rough around the edges. Bruce lets out an involuntary sigh in response and he barks out the most awful, staccato, hyena laugh Bruce has ever heard in his entire life.  
Even so, Bruce can’t help but smile.  
  His barking settles into a calmer giggling by the time the professor starts setting up for class, and he leans closer to Bruce to whisper “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” saying the phrase as if there was something scandalous about what Bruce can only describe as the tango of awkward eye contact they’ve been dancing for the past week and a half. Bruce just rolls his eyes in return and tries to focus on what the Professor is saying. He succeeds for about half of the 75 minute class, before giving up and concentrating on what he’s going to make for dinner. (Truth is, he took a class in this subject over the summer after senior year, and he’s been averaging 90% on every test so far without studying.) The humanized cartoon next to him- whose name Bruce realizes he still doesn’t know- has been doodling since about 15 minutes into the lecture, tiny faces with extravagant makeup and updos. Bruce wonders idly if he’s an art major. He certainly looks like an art major. He gets lost watching the other draw, lost in the angles and planes of their faces, trying to discern if the pictures are kind of ugly or stunningly beautiful. He decides, somewhat reluctantly, that they, and their artist, are sort of both.  
  The man turns to him as soon as the professor utters his last word, resting his chin on his hand and looking more than pleased with himself. He sticks his other hand out, shoving it towards Bruce.  
  “J,” Bruce takes his hand, shaking it, noting the way his hands seem to tremble during their short contact. “People call me Joker.”  
Bruce, mostly accidentally, snorts. “For anyone else I’d find that hard to believe, but for you, I believe it.” He pauses, clears his throat. “Bruce.” The man- Joker, which might take some time to get used to- smiles genuinely, and he almost succeeds in looking handsome.  
Almost.  
  Joker shoves his few things into his worn-out backpack, standing up and checking his phone while Bruce gathers his stuff. His whole body seems to protest to staying still- aside from him fidgeting, the tremble Bruce could feel in his hands has spread, giving him the appearance of vibrating. “You don’t have to wait for me.” is all Bruce can offer.  
  “I don’t have anywhere to be,” he mumbles in response, finishing up a message on his phone and locking it, slipping it into a pocket in the dress. “Besides, Brucie, I’m a gentleman.”  
  Bruce groans. “Please don’t call me that.”  
  “No promises.”  
  They’re two of the last people to leave, and Bruce finds himself walking through the halls of the building at a more casual pace than usual. There’s a nagging voice in the back of his mind telling him that he needs to get home so he isn’t eating too late- one of the only downsides of taking evening classes- but Joker holds a casual magnetism that draws Bruce to him. His fashion, the green hair, the unidentifiable accent, the scars. He wants to deny it- but he wants to know more. They part naturally, perhaps too much so for two people who have just met, and when he gets home Harvey mentions that he seems to be in a better mood than usual.  
He doesn’t ruminate on it.  
      +++  
  He sits next to Joker again the next class. And the class after that. Et cetera.  
Bruce learns a few things about him. Firstly, he’s not technically an art major. He’s undeclared, but he is taking art classes (“everyone thinks I’m an art major, I think it’s the snot hair”). The snot hair, and the dresses, neon, and various other ugly clothes he wears are because, in his own words, “gender is fake but fashion is real.” The accent is from moving around a lot as a kid, hence the myriad of regional slang. Bruce doesn’t ask about his scars, but he ends up seeing more the more he watches him- his arms, chest, and shoulders harbor the same scars as his face- what looks like cigarette burns, but clumped together, rougher around the edges. He’s also got some long, thin scars that Bruce pretends he doesn’t notice. Nothing new enough to warrant immediate concern. Every once in awhile he’ll miss one or two classes in a row, come in looking more high-strung than usual, and bite his nails all class, but Bruce isn’t sure they’re close enough yet to ask if he needs help.  
  He doesn’t ask why Bruce spends class planning his calorie intake out a week in advance instead of taking notes. Bruce doesn’t ask about his scars. He figures they’re in mutual agreement.  
  Still, there’s something about being around him that leaves Bruce feeling… wrong. It’s nothing that J does himself, rather what Bruce does around him- the way he watches, the way he thinks about him after they’ve parted. Bruce ignores it, watches less, adds another mile on the treadmill, because that’s always worked for him, and it’s going to have to keep working. It’s all he has.  
      +++  
  Bruce gives Joker his number the week after. If he’s being honest, he’s not really sure how friendship is supposed to work, but he’s also pretty sure Joker isn’t rolling in a cornucopia of friends, either. Most of Bruce’s friends are people he’s known since elementary school, and he could never trust new people enough in high school to make lasting connections.  
  Joker is in a good mood, Bruce can tell because he’s wearing his favorite pair of earrings (a big, gaudy pair of yellow, geometric clip-ons), and his makeup is freshly done (rather than yesterday’s showered-on eyeliner), and he showed up for class before it actually started. He sits down, smiles at Bruce, and promptly pulls not one but two bottled frappucinos out of his bag: one “coconut white mocha” and one “intense caramel”. Then he takes out a very large thermos, and Bruce watches on in horror as he dumps both drinks into it, swishes it around a bit, and takes a sip. A shiver runs through Joker’s body in response, and Bruce thinks for a moment his body might convulse, too, but he regains his composure before it gets the chance. Joker coughs and re-caps the thermos, letting a pained expression pass over his face briefly before turning back to bruce and giving him a smile that, while trying very hard, is still fake. Bruce gives him a genuine one in return and pretends he didn’t notice. He thinks briefly that he misses seeing Joker’s real smile, but pushes it out before he can really examine it. He doesn’t want to think about what it means.  
  “So you got any hot plans for the weekend, B?” He raises one green eyebrow at Bruce, fiddling with his chewed-up pencil. His voice sounds scratchier than usual.  
  Bruce snorts. “Of course. My schedule is packed.” He laughs, but it reminds him of high school, when his relatives would ask if he had a girlfriend during the holidays. Joker’s noxious giggle brings him out of his memories, and for the first (and last, he thinks) time, he’s thankful for it.  
  “Aw, no time for little old me?”  
  “I’ll pencil you in if there’s a cancellation.”  
  Joker giggles again, rolling his eyes and taking another sip from the thermos. After that the professor starts talking, and Bruce opts to actually taking notes, just so he doesn’t have to think for seventy-five minutes. Joker doodles in his planner, which, by the looks of it, hasn’t ever been used to plan anything. Every few minutes he takes a sip, scowls, and goes back to drawing. By the end of class his hands are almost shaking too violently to draw smooth lines, although his art doesn’t contain many to begin with. Bruce is trying desperately to ignore how nervous he is about something so simple. Becoming friends with people shouldn’t be this hard. It was never this hard before. Why is it now?  
  Joker hauls his bag onto the table, almost knocking over the thermos. Bruce startles, but doesn’t jump. Hey, here’s my number, in case you miss class again is what Bruce wants to say, what he plans to say, but the entirely more vague “I have something for you” is what comes out.  
  Joker’s whole face lights up. “Really?” he gasps, “for moi?”  
  “It’s not- It’s just my number. In case you need anything.”  
  Joker deflates only slightly. Is he disappointed by the lack of a material gift? Of course, he’s a filthy capitalist just like everyone else. But does he also appreciate the sentiment? Sure. A little. He sticks out his hand and Bruce hands him a slip of paper. “Well Brucie, before you know it we’ll be exchanging romantic emails. I might even see you outside of this class!” There’s no resentment in his voice. Bruce relaxes.  
  “I thought you might appreciate it, since you skip class so often. If you ever need notes or anything.” His phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number. It’s the eggplant emoji, the mouth emoji, the joker card emoji, and a knife. He looks back up and Joker is giggling. “Thanks.”  
  “No problem.” They walk out together, like always, this time with a sort of giddy energy between them. Joker feels like the weird girl that just got the quarterback’s number, but he tries to push that out of his mind. Bruce is just being nice. That doesn’t stop him from putting the heart eyes or kiss mark emoji next to Bruce’s name, but there are emojis next to all the names in his phone, even the campus police. And sure, maybe he does scream about it to Eddie when he gets back to their dorm. But he’s not going to make a mountain out of a molehill. He’s going to be normal about it. He limits himself to texting Bruce only once every few days, unless Bruce texts him first (and unbeknownst to him, Bruce has a pretty similar policy), but soon enough they’re texting every day, and it’s not long until they have weekend plans. And Joker is finding it very hard not to do the absolute most.


End file.
